Rogue

by Blair Babylon

  She gasped against his lips at the force of her need to press her body against him. He chuckled just a little, but his breath came too fast for a real laugh.

  His thumb moved again, a little more roughly, and her gasp turned into a whimper.

  Again, and rougher, and he was pinching her. Dree was rocking on her knees, trying to get closer to him.

  His hand left her hair, and she felt his touch at her waist. The firmness of his touch dipped down to graze her hip and palm her bottom, groping her whole cheek as his fingers pressed into her flesh, and then he slid his arm around her waist and lifted her, laying her down on the soft mattress.

  Augustine was so tender that she wasn’t sure she remembered the night before correctly. That brute who’d tied her hands and yanked her backward to impale her on his cock had somehow turned into this man who rolled between her legs and kissed her mouth, and her neck, and chest and breasts like he was savoring every inch of her. His body pressed between her thighs, the muscles like stones under his skin pressing into her soft flesh. Every inch of his muscular body felt like velvet or silk over steel.

  His touch tonight seemed slower, every stroke elongated to wrap his hand a little longer over her legs or breasts. In the dark, each brush of his hands made her skin crave more. When he was raking his teeth over her neck, she kissed his shoulder. The scent of herbs and lemon from the hotel’s soap mixed with the faint masculine musk from his body, and she breathed it in. God, he smelled so clean and male and warm, like he was making love to her in a summer field.

  He was teasing her with his lips and his fingers, driving her crazy. When he rubbed the head of his cock through her folds, the soft friction on her clit made her body clench so hard that her need for him hurt. Her whimper of “Please,” left her lips and must have dropped into the darkness because his next stroke was even lighter.

  She squirmed under him, trying to drive herself down and onto him, but he was too big and strong for her. She tried pleading with him, “Do it, please,” but he ran one gentle, cool fingertip around her clit and stopped.

  “What do I have to do?” she asked. “Please, I’ll do anything, anything.”

  Another light tease of a stroke, a slow dip inside her, and another wet swipe over her clit.

  “Please!”

  “Please, who?” he whispered near her ear.

  “Please, Sir!” she said. “Sir, take me, do anything to me, please!”

  “Better,” he said, and he slowly, too slowly, forever too slowly, began to slide into her.

  His hardness stretched her, filling her. He was so big—that part sure hadn’t changed since last night—and he pressed forward and pulled back until his body nestled into hers.

  Her hand squeezed his shoulder as she rose to meet him, and maybe her nails dug into his skin too much.

  His growl and answering bite on her neck drove her higher.

  His slow strokes into her seemed like he was taking up every inch of her, his cock and his touch and his herbal and male scent infusing into her until he occupied her body and her senses.

  He caressed her whole body, inside and out, and she tightened and shattered around him in a flurry of pulses and cries.

  Afterward, Dree’s head was spinning, and she clung to him.

  Augustine held her in his strong arms for what felt like hours. After an eternity, he raised her to her feet, washed her body in the shower like she was a toy doll, and held her fingertips as she laid down naked in the bed.

  “Shouldn’t I put on the tee shirt?” she asked.

  He had put those wild jammie pants back on, and he laid down on his side of the bed. “No. I like you naked, so I can touch you any time I want to, so I can do anything I want to you. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He kissed her and let his thumb graze her nipple, and she gasped because she was still swollen and a little sore.

  “Anytime I want,” he whispered. “Now, lay down and sleep.”

  Dree had never slept naked before, ever, and it was especially hard because Augustine kept rolling over and stroking her between her legs or sucking on her breast until she was frustrated, and then stopping.

  And he’d worn a white tee shirt with those garish jammie pants all night, so once again Dree hadn’t been able to figure out what that tattoo on his back was or examine the one on his arm, either.

  Sometime after the lunch they ate in bed, he told her to get on her knees and suck him off. She said, “Yes, Sir,” and she sucked his thick, hard length until he came down her throat.

  She was a little aware that she was spinning away from who she thought she was because that whole day, she just wanted him to take her again. The muscular flesh of his body was an addiction, and she wanted him in her mouth, touching her skin, his scent in her nose, and his body moving in hers.

  Dree stole away to the bathroom with her phone and checked for messages.

  Her sister Mandi had texted that a lot of money had been deposited in her bank account, and her relief was palpable in Mandi’s texts and updates about Victor.

  Sister Ann’s text said that Father Thomas had driven by Peaceful Transitions Hospice, and he was confident his previous description of the minimal facility had been accurate.

  Dree couldn’t bring herself to call the police just yet. It wasn’t that she was trying to buy time or that she was trying to cover up what Francis had done, but she just wasn’t sure how to describe it. She didn’t know if she was right or whether she was making things up or seeing something where there was nothing. Maybe Peaceful Transitions had downsized and moved into smaller facilities when the insurance companies had changed their reimbursement policy three months ago. Maybe they had a whole bunch of smaller places now instead of one more substantial building.

  Dree was desperate to believe that she could explain this away, but she knew that soon, if she couldn’t come up with some reason not to, she had to call the police.

  Later, though time had no meaning until Sir said that it did, supper was delivered before they had to get ready to go to the ballet.

  He told her to wear the gray dress with the swishy hemline like a can-can dancer and no panties, and she did.

  Chapter Twelve

  Edging

  Maxence

  She wasn’t wearing panties.

  Maxence was sitting beside his little blonde, Dree, in their box high above the crowd at the ballet.

  Three empty seats stood behind them, and one to his left. He’d bought all six seats in the box, of course, because security was still a problem. He couldn’t decide who the more significant threat was, the enraged Mafia boss or his own brother.

  Not that there weren’t other possible dangers.

  Under his borrowed tuxedo, Maxence’s skin felt wind-burned. He rubbed his palms together as he watched the ballet. He whispered to Dree, “Are you enjoying it?”

  “I know I’m an American, so maybe I’m just a little prudish. The French are far more sophisticated than we are,” Dree said. “But doesn’t this ballet seem a little—erotic—to be out in public like this?”

  “It’s about love.”

  “Yeah, okay. But, I mean, they’re sliding all over each other. It’s beautiful, and wow, they’re amazing. But I’m pretty sure that guy likes his partner a lot.”

  Max leaned toward her, practically resting his chin on her shoulder. Her fluff of hair smelled like herbs and flowers. “The four gardeners, they’re essentially playing the role of Cupid. They grow love, not flowers. They allow each of the couples to bloom together.”

  In truth, watching the ballet dancers, most of whom wore thin leotards or tights, leaping into each other’s arms and tilting their heads together made Maxence ready to take his little blonde home and throw her on the bed again.

  But he knew she wasn’t wearing panties.

  And no one else was in the box with them.

  Upholstered walls divided them from the other audience members in the other boxes and afforded them some
privacy. A safety wall in front of them blocked the audiences’ view below their waists.

  There was a reason why he had reserved one of the boxes on the top row.

  He gathered her skirt in his fingers, inching it up. Its hemline crawled up her calves. “Don’t look down. Watch the ballet.”

  She did, and her breathing rose higher in her chest.

  He told her, “The ballet is called ‘Le Parc,’ and a young French choreographer did the choreography for it. The three acts take place at three different times of the day, and the three duets are three different scenes. The first one was playful love outdoors in the park in the morning. These are the honorable men who are chasing the women among the trees at dusk. The last act is the lunatic women who must accept the men’s embraces at night. The ballet is very French, and it’s about the myths of French culture. It’s as much about Choderlos de Laclos’ Les Liaisons dangereuses as it is about Buñuel’s masochistic films Cet obscur objet du désir and Belle de jour. It’s not about growing up but about emotions awakening.”

  His fingers reached the end of her hemline, and his fingertips brushed her bare thigh. The fragile silk of her dress caught on the heavy calluses on his fingertips.

  A shiver ran through her body that he could feel where his cheek was touching the side of her face. “I feel like I’m the young ingenue, and you’re the older, sophisticated European intent on debauching me.”

  “You’re right.” He bent his neck and dropped a kiss on the upper part of her shoulder that the neckline of the dress left bare and slipped his hand lower on her leg. “Cross your legs.”

  She did, but the wrong way, and crushed his hand against the wooden edge of her seat.

  Oh, but what a way to go. He would gladly lose a hand for this. “The other way, if you would, pet.”

  Dree shifted on her chair, crossing her legs away from where he sat.

  Max flexed his fingers against her leg, making sure nothing was broken. He was going to have a bruise across the back of his hand. He laid his lips on her neck again and dipped his fingers under her thigh.

  Her body and the upholstery of the seat warmed his hand, and he tucked his fingers farther under her leg.

  He had her full attention, but he couldn’t quite reach where he wanted to.

  He whispered near her ear, “Lean on the railing with your elbows and keep your eyes on the stage.”

  Dree did, and Max slid his fingers farther under her leg until he touched the softest part of her.

  He just left his fingertip there barely inserted between her folds, resting on her clit. “Are you enjoying the ballet?”

  She nodded. “Yes, very much.”

  He’d kept her frustrated and unsatisfied all day long, stroking her and not letting her climax and then fucking her face when he felt like it.

  He asked, “What do you think about the ballet?”

  “I didn’t realize I liked ballet so much, Sir.”

  For that Sir, he drew a slick circle around her clit with his fingertip, and she gasped a little.

  She whispered, “The music is lovely.”

  For managing to carry on a conversation, he slipped his thumb inside her, up to his second knuckle, and rubbed gently on her front wall where he knew she would be exquisitely sensitive.

  “The music is three of Mozart’s piano concertos, chérie.” The memory came to him that Flicka von Hannover had performed one of them at a competition when they were younger. He’d traveled to England to watch her perform.

  Everything came back to Flicka in his life, both her presence and her absence. Yes, they ran in the same circles and had many friends in common, and their goals and worldviews were so similar that it was only logical they coordinate their charitable efforts.

  His life tangled with hers.

  Every time he found another place where their lives knotted together, her absence burned.

  “You know a lot about ballet,” Dree said. The catch in her voice drove him wild, but he couldn’t even move, lest someone see.

  The heat of her body surrounded his thumb, and he stretched out his finger to reach between her folds and up to that firm knot of nerve endings where he knew she’d love it. He said, “My family back in Monagasquay enjoys the arts. My grandmother especially enjoyed the ballet. I’ve attended concerts, ballets, and symphonies since before I can remember.”

  “I’ve never been to a music concert. The tickets are too expensive.” Her voice sounded strangled like someone had his hand wrapped around her slim throat, and Maxence filed that thought away for later.

  He rubbed his finger over her clit slowly and said, “Tell me you like the ballet.”

  She whispered, “I like the ballet. I love the ballet. I really, really love the ballet.”

  Maxence slowly pulled his hand away from her and used a handkerchief to wipe her slipperiness off of his hand. “You forgot to call me Sir, pet.”

  A sound like a tiny sob escaped Dree’s throat. “I hate you, Auggie.”

  Yes, she would be ready for what he wanted when he got her back to the hotel.

  After the ballet, the hotel had scheduled a car pick up directly outside the rear entrance. A black town car was waiting for them as they emerged.

  Maxence wrapped Dree in the formal coat he’d bought for her and hustled her down the stairs to the waiting vehicle. As the chauffeur drove them back to the Four Seasons, Max watched the traffic behind them through the driver’s side rearview mirror.

  Two motorbikes were following them. The low motorcycles were moving through the heavy Parisian traffic, their single headlights splitting lanes to drive between cars and keep up with them.

  After several blocks, Max was sure someone was following them.

  He leaned forward and told the chauffeur, “Tell the hotel we will need to come in through the underground garage, and make sure the entrance is blocked off as soon as the car comes in.”

  “Very good, sir.” He made a quick call to the hotel and arranged it.

  The driver made a few quick turns near the end of their drive to gain distance. Blocking the entrance did keep the motorcycles from following the car down into the underground parking garage.

  However, one of the motorcycles squealed down the street as the rear of their car tipped down into the garage.

  The rider’s helmet turned to watch them.

  Chances were that whoever had been following them now knew the hotel where Maxence was staying.

  That was exceedingly bad.

  Maxence had ordered a dessert and champagne to be waiting for them in the room, and Dree seemed delighted with the meringues filled with softly whipped chocolate mousse.

  Dree said she “needed a pit stop,” which took Max a minute to puzzle out what she meant. He’d watched many Grand Prix races from his window as a child, so he finally figured out that she meant a toilet, but Americans were indeed prudish about saying such things, which was cute. While he waited, he opened his computer and checked his email for a few minutes until he realized that she had been utilizing the facilities for an inordinately long time.

  It got to the point where he felt he should check on her.

  He pushed open the bedroom door and leaned inside. “Chérie?”

  Dree was sitting on the bed, staring at her phone.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She wiped her face with her other hand.

  Oh, good Lord, she was crying. “Oh, no, ma chérie. What is it?”

  “Will you sit with me for a minute?”

  He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on? Did your thieving ex text you or something?”

  “No, not that. I have to call the police.”

  Max leaned back. “Are we okay?”

  Sadly, he knew he could get out of anything she threw at him, possibly without even making a phone call.

  She waved her hand like she was shooing away smoke. “Oh, God, yes. Not you. We’re fine. You’re great. Not the French police. The ones
in Arizona. It’s only about three o’clock in the afternoon in Phoenix. I should have called them before, but I don’t know what to say or how to say it.”

  He leaned back on his arms. “Okay. I’m here.”

  She dialed her phone and pointed to it while it rang through the speaker. “I figured out how to call over Wi-Fi.”

  “Excellent.” He should have helped her with that.

  Dree’s cell phone rang in her hands as she waited for someone to answer. She seemed more fidgety than usual, chewing on her lower lip and darting glances at him.

  Maxence reached over and took one of her hands in his, interlacing his fingers with hers.

  She squeezed his hand and stared at her phone.

  The phone clicked. A male voice said, “Phoenix Crime Stoppers. What’s your crime tip?”

  Dree drew in a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. She said all at once, “I need to talk to someone about a hospice that is being used as a front to obtain pharmaceutical narcotics illegally for street sale.”

  “Just a minute. I’ll connect you to the narcotics division.”

  Maxence adjusted his hand on hers, tucking her arm under his elbow.

  After a few minutes of clicking and beeping, a man’s voice spoke through her phone, “Narcotics.”

  She said, “I’d like to give you an anonymous tip that Peaceful Transitions Hospice—”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Dree spelled it for him. “They are being used as a front to obtain pharmaceutical narcotics for illegal resale. According to their regulatory documents and brochure information, they have a ninety-bed facility. At their address, however, they only have room for three patients. They are routinely obtaining narcotics from Good Samaritan Hospital—”

  “How do you spell that?” The man asked again.

  Max frowned. Maybe the guy had dyslexia or was a stickler for spelling. Max didn’t say anything.

  Dree frowned and glanced at Max, spelling the name of the hospital out for the officer. She must think there was something odd about it, too.